Bloody Vows

by Jones, Lisa Renee

  “Considering the killer left me that jar of pig’s blood, I should, but for now, no. I assume Chef Roswell is waiting for me?”

  “I recorded him and sent him on his way. He’s an arrogant ass that can’t talk about anything but his food. He’s on standby to come back in.”

  I decide he did me a favor. I need to interview the sous chef that should have been with him last night anyway. “In that case,” I say, “I’m going to talk to the landlord that called this in and then the medical examiner and then I’m done here.”

  “That would be me.”

  A thin man with red hair and glasses appears in the doorway wearing a white bunny suit looking thing. “I’m John Nguyen.”

  “Nguyen? You’re literally Opie. That name is all wrong for you.”

  He laughs. “Yes. Long story. You see—”

  “Then don’t tell it,” I say. “If you were adopted—”

  “Exactly! You guessed.”

  “I’m good like that. Now prove to me your parent chose right by choosing you and show me how smart you are. We have a murder to solve, not a genealogy tree to follow. And I have no idea why you look like you’re going to a parade right now, but whatever. Get with Danica Day in the Hauppauge ME’s office. She’s got a matching murder.” I indicate Naomi. “She swallowed something that cut her inside out, or that’s the theory. She drank wine. I think she took medication from the bottles on the bed, probably the ibuprofen gel capsule. Upon inspection, they seem clean but for all we know there were only a few bad pills and she just popped those. What I need to know is could she have taken the pills beside the bed, and walked this far before they killed her?”

  “Maybe she took the pills,” he offers, “and held the wine in her mouth because she just couldn’t make herself swallow. Some people like my sister, Sara, just don’t like to take pills.”

  It’s a logical, solid answer. I like the way the bunny suit man thinks. I grab my card from my bag. “Call me this afternoon.” He takes the card.

  I step around him and head out of the bedroom. “You’re leaving?” Houston calls out.

  “Kitchen!” I call over my shoulder and I keep walking.

  I pass the living room and enter the tiny dining room with a wooden table attached to a rectangular-shaped kitchen. I could go straight to the fridge but I decide to keep the suspense moving. I start opening drawers and find what I think is a junk drawer. It includes past due bills, lots of them, a fashion magazine, coupons, most of which are expired, scribbled grocery lists, and to-do lists. I’m about to give up when bingo again, I find a list of phone numbers. None of them have names on them, but this could be useful. I shoot a photo and text it to Tic Tac: See who owns the numbers and if any of them are registered with Banking the Billionaire.

  “What’d you find?” the chief asks, stepping inside the small space.

  I bag the list of numbers and hold them up. “Nameless phone numbers.” I set the baggy down on the counter for his team to log.

  “Why do I think I need context for the numbers?”

  “Both victims sent text messages with coded language that fits a game we think they were playing. And I think the numbers could be players or available throwaway phone numbers to use for the game.”

  He asks me something about the game but I tune him out, already moving on. I open the refrigerator and expect a jar of blood. No blood. No wedding dress. Those things were meant to get my attention. I’m following a trail the killer wants me to follow.

  I need to follow the trail the killer doesn’t want me to follow.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  I end up cornered in Naomi’s tiny kitchen with Houston demanding an update on the investigation. I’m eager enough to have him handoff the dirty work to his team, to give him what he wants. My summary ends with, “I’m leaving. The scene is all yours.”

  “I’m going to call in a detective named Marco—”

  “Polo?” I ask. “Because if that’s his name, don’t bother.”

  “Rollins,” he supplies. “His name is Rollins. Good guy. Plays well with those who do not play well with others.”

  “I’m certain I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not staying to meet him. I have to run down a couple of leads here that may tie to both cases and then be back in Long Island to do interviews tonight. Have your detective line up the appropriate interviews. He can go at them today. I need to see them again tomorrow.”

  “Any profiler insight?”

  “He’s smart enough for me to have nothing but that to offer. He’s smart. That is all I have right now.”

  “He?”

  “I do think it’s a man, but the woman who showed up at my house last night has to stay in the playbook.”

  “Chief!”

  At his name, he steps out of the kitchen. I’m done with this conversation and thank fuck he’s headed down the hallway when I enter the living room. I text Jay: On my way out, and then make a fast path to the door, and once I’m outside in the patio area I hear a woman say, “I need answers. What happened?”

  A few more steps and I bring Officer Kinsley into view as he stands with a woman sporting pink hair and sunbaked skin as well as a short-waisted winter coat. She’s holding a small dog. She’s also got one of those giant butts that no woman grows naturally that makes her have a pain in her ass while she’s being a pain in everyone else’s ass. She’s one of those people. It radiates from her. Jesus, help me get out of here.

  I head down the path and when I reach the gate, Officer Kinsley turns a desperate look on me, “Special Agent Love, this is Mirna McDonald. She’s the landlord here. She made the 911 call.”

  “What is going on? Is she dead? Did someone actually die on our property?”

  She looks fifty, but I’m guessing she’s forty, with ten years of premature sunbaked wrinkles.

  “Yes,” I say. “Someone did. And I’m told she plotted to ruin you by dying here. You must be very angry.”

  “I’m just thinking business. It’s bad for business, dying in the rentals.”

  “What prompted the 911 call for the someone who died? I assume you don’t know her name even though she lived in your property.”

  “Naomi,” she states tartly. “I know her name. She put in a service notice for her stove. The maintenance man said she wouldn’t answer the door. I took him over here and opened the door. I wanted to be sure it was clear inside before I left him there, liability and all. That’s when I found her.”

  “How long had she been here?”

  “A year,” she says. “She’d gotten divorced and was on her own now, she said. She came from money, that one, and now she’s broke.”

  Houston told me she’d been going through a divorce not actually divorced when her husband, Emma’s brother, had died. “And you know this how?” I ask.

  “I ask questions before I let someone move in. She told me it was a nasty divorce and he had her money. I didn’t know what to think of that but you know, ex-husbands and all. I got one, too.”

  I’ll bet she does. “Did she have many visitors?” I ask.

  “A couple of girlfriends. Some guy. Tall, with glasses, a fit looking man. Never knew where he parked. Never saw his car. That was curious.”

  I glance at Officer Kinsley. “Camera footage?”

  “I don’t have cameras,” she snaps. “There are cameras at the streetlights. We can’t afford cameras.” She mumbles something and then says, “Can I go?”

  Unfortunately, I’m not done with her. “Did you have any personal interaction with Ms. Wells?” I ask.

  She blanches. “Me? No. Just to pick up the rent. She liked to pay in cash.”

  Which is interesting, I think, tucking away that detail for later. “Did you know her sister?”

  “Had no idea she had a sister. Can I go?”

  The dog, still in her arms starts yapping at Officer Kinsley. He grimaces. I motion for her to go away and then start wal
king myself. I weave through emergency personnel and duck under the tape to scan the street. Jay pulls up beside me. I round the vehicle and climb inside. “Kane?”

  He offers a grim shake of his head. “Nothing yet.”

  Nothing yet.

  I grab my phone and give him an address for the sous chef who didn’t show up last night and then dial Kane. The call goes directly to voicemail. I dial Andrew. “I heard you have another victim,” he answers.

  “The sister-in-law. The real Naomi Wells. Same story. Bleeding from her throat. No wedding dress. No blood.”

  “What do you think it means?”

  “I don’t know, Andrew. Right now, Kane is missing and that’s all I can think about. I need you to go to the airport, just you, and use your law enforcement magic to find out if he got on a chopper today and if it landed safely. Don’t give me a hard time. I know something’s wrong. I need you to be my brother right now.”

  He doesn’t even hesitate. “I’ll go now. Have you pinged his phone?”

  “I don’t want law enforcement involved yet and Lucas won’t fucking pick up. He can do it.”

  “I’ll call the airport and go by Lucas’s place.”

  “Thanks, Andrew.”

  We disconnect.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Turns out the sous chef who should have been at our house instead of Fake Naomi lives on the other side of the city. Jay and I make it about ten minutes up the road and we’re already stuck in a traffic jam. I pull my coat on. “I don’t have time for this. I need a chopper back to Long Island tonight. Can you arrange it and tell Kane my plans if you can reach him?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I won’t make it back for my meetings if I sit in this nightmare. I’m going to take the subway. I’ll try to go by Kane’s office, but otherwise, I’ll meet you at the airport.”

  “What time do you need to leave?”

  I glance at my watch, which reads two o’clock, and no wonder I’m starving. “Five. Tell Kane to call me.” I exit the vehicle and start walking, stopping by a street vendor to grab a bag of cashews before I walk the two blocks to the subway entrance.

  In the meantime, I dial Tic Tac and update him on the new victim. “I need to know everything you have on Naomi and anyone in her life. And I need to know about her ex who died. See if you can connect him to the Banking the Billionaire game.”

  “On it. So far, I haven’t connected Emma directly to the game.”

  “What about that batch of throwaway phones?”

  “Two of the numbers are registered, but neither has logged on for months,” he says.

  I pause outside the subway entrance. “Find out if Naomi’s late husband played. My gut said he did. If we find a circle of people who play, we might find a killer and a motive. And look up Michael Young. He’s the sous chef who was supposed to be at my house last night. Maybe he has a game connection.”

  “On it,” he says. “I did talk to Murphy about a warrant to get user information, but that may take time. I’ll let him know there’s a second murder. I didn’t even ask. Another wedding dress and jar of blood?”

  “Neither.”

  “And that means what to you?”

  What does it mean to me? I think. I should have an answer, and if I was in the right headspace, I would. I force myself to focus, really focus, and see where that leads me. “The killer wants me to look one place when I should be looking another,” I say, basically repeating what I thought when I was at Naomi’s house but taking it one step further. “We need to think about the murder weapon,” I say and it’s then that I realize Danica Day hasn’t called me. “Let me call the ME from Emma’s case. I’m waiting on details on what exactly caused her wound. I’ll call you back.”

  I disconnect and eye the subway that isn’t well-timed right now. Not when I need to make phone calls. I spy a coffee shop and head in that direction as I dial Danica Day.

  “Special Agent Love,” she greets. “I was about to call you. I just finished up the autopsy and I’ll email you the report. And I’ve already talked to the ME on the new case. It’s daunting but rather exciting to be a part of a serial killer case.”

  I walk into the coffee shop and straight to the counter staffed by a young woman with red hair and glasses. “Skinny white mocha, no foam, add whip,” I instruct her, and then respond to Danica, “Look here, DD the model, I’m not sure what your story is, but serial killers are not exciting and that’s the kind of talk that gets people in trouble and dead. And two murders do not make a serial killer anyway. Not conclusively.”

  I prepare to swipe my card. The redhead stares at me, her eyes wide, paler than moments before. I motion to my badge. She nods but still looks like she wants to throw up. Good. Maybe she will live life a little more cautiously after hearing this. I may have just saved her life. All in the day of an FBI agent. I swipe my card and keep talking. “By the books, technically two murders can be a serial killer,” I add, “but not by my standards. Intent to kill again does.”

  “By my standards, this is a serial killer,” she argues. “And come on. He’s going to kill again.”

  “Focus on the victims, not the killer right now,” I say, moving to the end of the counter to wait on my order. “How exactly did she get cut from the inside?”

  “It’s really remarkable,” DD says. “It’s like a bunch of small globes made of sharp objects. They lodged on the inside of her throat, and cut her just enough to cause exterior ruptures. It’s advanced. It’s hard for me to even fathom as possible and yet I’m seeing it with my own eyes. This isn’t amateur level.”

  “My question is how did that get ingested?”

  “I have a theory. I think they are tiny when they are inserted into say a gel pill or whatever it was and then it explodes with some sort of trigger. When it explodes it lodges in the muscle and cuts. It doesn’t even go all the way through, but it ruptures the muscle. Have you seen those sponges that expand when you add water?”

  I roll my eyes. “Metal is not a sponge.”

  “I know that and my friend at the pharmaceutical company said the same. I’ll text you a photo of the devices.”

  “Anything else worth mentioning?”

  “This requires very specific skills of which I can’t even fully name. And Emma Wells was healthy until metal ripped her open. Photo coming. Let me know if you need me.”

  “You’re still hitting on me, DD,” I say, and she gasps.

  “I meant that professionally, Agent—”

  “See that you do,” I say and hang up. She’s so gullible. If she’s a Society plant, she’s a soldier, not a leader. And sometimes soldiers can be useful. My coffee is set on the bar. I carry it to one of the tiny wooden tables all these Manhattan joints sport and sit down. The photo from DD arrives and she’s right. It almost looks like it could have been a tiny BB-like pellet that had sharp objects poking out from inside. It looks like she found about a dozen inside Emma’s body.

  It’s evil.

  And DD’s idea of a sponge-like device that explodes in your mouth is either foolish or brilliant.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  I shoot the photograph of the murder weapon to Andrew and Tic Tac via a group text and label it the obvious for me but perhaps not for them: Murder weapon. The medical examiner believes this starts as what I assume to be a ball the size of the head of a pin that expands with water. I’m not sure how metal expands with water, but that’s her theory.

  I don’t wait for either to reply. I don’t even give my brother time to look at the photograph. I dial Andrew and not only does he answer on the first ring, he gets right to the point. “Lucas isn’t at home or he’s not answering his door. I walked around back and looked inside and the lights are out. And the airport won’t release information. I’ve got a call into the big boss. I know him. He’ll help. Call me when you get a break or I’ll call you when I know something. And Lilah, this is Kane. He’s fine.
He’ll call soon.”

  “Right,” I say, and I’m now thinking of Kane’s warning to Lucas about getting involved in his uncle’s business being a good way to have a short life. Not long ago, when Kane’s uncle disappeared for a few days, Kane was pulled into the cartel, he had to prevent some sort of war between rivals. What if during that period, Kane burned someone and they wanted revenge?

  “Lilah.”

  At Andrew’s prodding, I snap back to the present. “Yes,” I say, and I move the conversation forward. “You heard about the new victim?”

  “Houston called me,” he confirms. “Was she wearing a wedding dress?”

  “No.”

  “Did the killer leave you a jar of pig’s blood?”

  “No pig’s blood this time.”

  “Interesting,” he says, “And before I comment further, there are no reports of missing or dead pigs in our area, or for a sixty-mile radius.”

  “What?” I say in mock disbelief. “The elites of the Hamptons have no pig blood donation center?”

  “That was a bad joke,” he says. “Worse than most of your jokes.”

  “Probably.”

  “Absolutely.” He changes the subject. “We tested your food from last night. It’s all clear.”

  “Somehow I knew that. I don’t think that woman was there to hurt us. Just distract me.”

  “Okay, so let’s talk about that. Someone, the killer, we assume, wants to distract you and us. Why leave the blood and dress the first time, but not the second?”

  “If my attention was the goal, the killer has that already,” I say, though it’s a decidedly lame answer. And I don’t have a better answer, not one I’m satisfied with, which I normally would by now. “Did you see the photo of the murder weapon?”

  “I just saw it,” he says. “Craziest thing I’ve ever seen. It’s like black ops military weapons from a movie.”

  “A good reason to see if anyone in Emma’s life, past or present, has a background in the military.” I think of the investment game Banking the Billionaire. “Or investments in a military project of some sort,” I add. “I’ll have our tech team work on it, too. Though we both know that’s the most obvious thing to do. The killer expects that.”